Conflicted Companionship
by gopadfoot
Summary: John is stuck in a hostage situation with that abominable Holmes- the elder, that is. Can they both overcome not only their enemies, but also their rocky relationship?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** As suggested by the wonderful KathyG, I want to try a story where Mycroft and John develop a relationship where they see each other as family. I hope I can develop that realistically on this story. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

"What do you mean, there isn't another way out?" John asked sharply.

"I'm afraid I mean exactly that, Dr. Watson," Mycroft answered in his usual unruffled manner.

"As in, the only way out of this bloody place is being guarded by a group of trigger-happy, machine gun-wielding terrorists? As in, we're stuck?"

"You catch on pretty quick," Mycroft said affable.

John had never felt more like punching the living daylights out of that pompous man. "And you just don't _care_? I don't know about you, but I do have a daughter that's waiting for me to come home, and I'd like to so exactly that, preferably today, thank you very much."

"Coincidentally, I'd like to get out of here, too, preferably on my own two feet."

"So why are you just _standing_ there, looking like you're enjoying a day at the beach? We need to _do_ something!"

"I'm well aware of that, Dr. Watson."

John ran an agitated hand through his hair, and then let out a long breath.

"Well?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage.

"I'm trying to assess our situation, which would be simple enough if you weren't trying to engage me in conversation."

The doctor clamped his mouth shut, and turned around to face the wall. Perhaps, if he wouldn't see the man, he might still have a chance to control his urges.

After several tense minutes, Mycroft spoke up. "There is no sign that Sherlock was ever held here. I'm beginning to suspect that that the terrorists have never even gotten hold of my brother. Yet they must have known that Sherlock was currently incommunicado, or their ruse would never have worked."

"So you're saying that we've walked into a trap," the doctor said, his voice even more frigid than the the continent that gave the other man his codename. "And you somehow didn't cotton on to that until we were already settled nice and snug in the net."

"Precisely."

"You were the one who called me. You _told_ me that Sherlock was in trouble. I _trusted_ you!"

The government employee didn't respond, merely tapped his umbrella on the ground, looking thoughtful.

"I'll know better next time," John snarked.

When the other man still didn't respond, the doctor turned to face him directly. "So, what do we do now, Mycroft?"

The other man hesitated before replying. "We wait. They should be coming for us soon."

"And...?"

"I don't know," the British Government admitted, a faint hint of worry creeping into his voice. "There's no sense in fighting, even if we're both armed. There's just too many of them. I can't call for help, because there's no service here. But even if I could, it wouldn't help much."

"Of course not, this is a hostage situation. The rescue team can't come in with guns blazing, obviously," John snorted. "Well, that's just wonderful. I mean, you've lead us here on false information, got us trapped, and you have no clue how to get us out of here. I suppose it's a good thing I'm here. I, at least, am not giving up so easily."

The older man didn't seem to be affected by the stinging sarcasm. "Do you have a plan?" he asked him quietly.

"Not yet. But I will definitely come up with one. If I'm feeling magnanimous, I might even include your rescue somewhere in it."

"I suppose I should be expressing my gratitude," Mycroft responded dryly.

They both held their breaths as they heard the footsteps coming down the stairs. There was nowhere to hide in that dank cellar, where the duo had trapped themselves looking for Sherlock. There was nowhere to go, but to the fates that awaited them.

Four burly, armed men burst in, and a grabbed hold of their prisoners.. They quickly divested John of his gun, and Mycroft of his umbrella. The two men were bound, gagged and blindfolded, and then led into a vehicle, which immediately began rumbling away.

John felt the price of a needle in his upper arm. His last thought before he lost consciousness was, _I will kill Mycroft bloody Holmes, if those bastard don't manage to do it themselves._


	2. Chapter 2

_This is exactly what I've_ always _dreamed of. Being held hostage in a damp, ten-by-ten cell, with the wonderful company of Mycroft Holmes._

"Ah, Dr. Watson," came the insufferable smug voice, as if on cue. "I do hope you've suffered no injuries?"

John did have a pounding headache, and his mouth was as dried out as a raisin. He was also the teensiest bit uncomfortable, what with the chains around his hands, feet, and neck. The doctor supposed that the other man wasn't asking about these "minor inconveniences". He probably needed to confirm that John wasn't irreversibly damaged, so that the doctor could go back to his duties as Sherlock's minder.

John didn't think he was being overly cynical. One could say there wasn't much love lost between the two men, although there was a certain mutual appreciation for each other's roles. John was Sherlock's companion (and minder, in Mycroft's view), and Mycroft was the big brother that was called upon to bail Sherlock out of all sorts of fixes.

John aimed for a neutral tone as he replied, "Nothing of significance, truly." Then he added, "Although I might have preferred some upgraded accomodations."

"I'm sure," the British Government drawled in response. "However, you will just have to accept these until the management is convinced otherwise."

John didn't find that funny. His irritation with Mycroft, their captors, even Sherlock (couldn't he have gotten himself capture instead of his brother? John would have definitely preferred his company) and the world in general was rising but the moment. Nevertheless, his professional and compassionate side quickly kicked in, and he turned to Mycroft.

"How are you feeling? Are you injured in any way?"

"I am alright, relatively speaking," came the stiff reply. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"We need to get out of here," John said, lowering his voice.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Mycroft replied.

"Well, I'll do the impossible then," John shot back.

"Dr. Watson, I recall hitting the right side of my head before I was rendered unconscious. Would it be possible to take a look?"

"What- yes, of course," John replied, hauling himself up with difficulty, and approaching the other man. There was a dim lighbulb in the cell, and the doctor observed the other man by its light. The man looked disheveled, pale, and had dirt streaked on his face. John supposed he didn't look too much better.

A hand pulled on his sleeve. John looked at Mycroft, who tilted his head to look at his hands. John followed his gaze, and saw Mycroft clenching his fist, then bringing his thumb, index and middle finger together. He then waited a few beats, then clenched his fist three times in succession.

As John watched him, puzzled, Mycroft repeated the sequence. Something clicked in the doctor's brain. _Morse code._ Dash, dot. Dash, dash, dash. N-O. Mycroft was signalling to him. No what? Mycroft use have seen the spark of comprehension in John's eyes, as he started a new sequence.

Dash. Pause. Dot dash. Pause. Dot dash dot dot. Pause. Dash dot dash.

T-A-L-K. Oh, no talk. There were probably- wait, Mycroft was signaling again, yes, C-A-M-E-R-A-S. So they were being watched. Fortunately, they had a sort of secret code, not that it would help much, John though pessimistically.

He examined Mycroft's head, and found no sign of injury. He told him not to worry, it was fine, and then retreated. He closed his eyes and let put a deep, deep breath.

* * *

IIt seemed like hours later when they got their first visitors. A dark-skinned man, short and lithe, with a scraggly beard, entered first, accompanied by a broad man, with pale skin and flat features, and various scars across his face and exposed arms.

"Well, well, well," said the shorter man, his accent perfectly English and upper-class. "Mycroft Holmes. I've been longing to meet you, for a very long time."

"I can't say the same, unfortunately," the British Government said dryly.

"Well, I do hope you'll change your opinion. I think we could be good friends."

"I'll have to disagree."

"Look here, Mr. Holmes, you know what we want. I could make all the usual threats, but I know you're a stubborn man. So I'll give you a demonstration first, so you know that we mean business."

"Go ahead," Mycroft challenged.

The terrorist turned to his bigger companion. "Take him," he said.

To John's surprise, the man was pointing at him. The brute unchained John, and hauled him to his feet. Then he chained his hands behind his back, and began to lead him out of the cell. John felt a pistol pressing into his neck, and tensed up.

He was led to a new room- torture chamber, more accurately, and strapped to a bed. He saw Mycroft being lead in and bound to a chair.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Holmes," the dark man warned. "Either you give us what you want, or you watch the doctor have a very uncomfortable time."

To John's surprise, Mycroft snorted. "Really? Who do you think I am? You should have done your research."

"We certainly did," their captors replied. "We know that you care for your little brother, and your brother cares for his little friend. Do you really want to send the doctor back to your brother in a bloody heap? Or in a body bag?"

"You're bluffing about the second part," Mycroft said in a bored tone. "If you kill him, he's no longer a bargaining chip. As for the torture, _do your research._ Ask your buddies about my Serbian mission, if you don't believe me. I watched my own brother being tortured, and did not lift a finger. As long as it doesn't interfere much with my goals, I do not take such tactics to heart."

"Let's say I believe you. Yet if I turn the doctor into a cripple, he won't be able to act as your brother's assistant."

"Then my brother will find another one," Mycroft said coldly.

The man spoke some words into a radio, which John recognized as being Arabic. He knew some words in that language, but was far from fluent. He did understand that the terrorists was asking somebody about Sherlock and the terror cell in Serbia that had captured him. _Wait, Sherlock had been captured in Serbia? When had that happened?_

John didn't have much time to ponder the information, as he was quickly stripped of his shirt, and moments later, got his first taste of torture delivered via electrodes. The shocks started out painful, and quickly became unbearable. John screamed with each shock, and then panted in agony. He must have gotten over twenty electric shocks, but he couldn't be sure.

Finally, the electrode were detached, and John fell back like a rag doll. Through a haze of burning pain, he heard Mycroft's supercilious, taunting voice. "Really, Dr. Watson, there was no need for all that noise. I can assure you that Sherlock has taken far worse than that without a sound."

The doctor wasn't sure he could ever hate that detestable man more than he did at the moment.

The terrorist got a new communication on his radio, and ignored the others until he finished. "Your story does check out, Mr. Holmes," he told Mycroft. "The files we have mention an interrogation you attended, and the fresh wounds that were treated afterwards. You have truly earned your code name, haven't you, Antartica?"

"Thank you," Mycroft replied, grinning smugly.

 _I was mistaken,_ John thought to himself bitterly. _I now hate him even more._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Just a word to my wonderful readers; I've got myself in over my head with several WIP's, all of which started in a moment of inspiration. I commit myself to finIslington them all. However, the ones that get the most responses will be the ones that get the fastest update.

So, if you really like this story, let me know. If you like a different one more, tell me. My WIP's and a short description of each can be found on my profile page. Thanks, guys/gals!

* * *

The captives were dragged back to the cell. John was tossed upon his thin mattress, where he lay like a broken doll, trembling from pain and cold. They weren't chained up again.

When the guards had left, Mycroft approached the doctor, and hesitantly reached out to adjust his position on the mattress. John winced, but felt too drained to protest. One blanket was placed carefully on top of him, and then another. John heard that blasted voice talking to him again, as cool and composed as ever.

"Dr. Watson, do pull yourself together. This can hardly be the worst situation you have ever found yourself in. What would my brother think of you if you fell apart so quickly?"

The doctor's breath quickened in anger, but he didn't bother to respond. The voice continued, unperturbed. "Now, I won't have you fainting on me. That would be inconvenient. Can you sit up? Oh, alright, let me assist you-" here John felt two hands under his head and neck, pushing him up with surprising gentleness, "and drink slowly." As much as John despised the man, his instincts led him to feel grateful for the cool water sliding down his parched throat.

When he was let down, he closed his eyes, and slept.

* * *

"Dr. Watson."

John was vaguely aware of a voice in his ear.

"Dr. Watson, I must insist," the voice annoyingly persisted.

John waved his hand weakly, as if shooing away an annoying fly.

"Dr. Watson! You need to get up, immediately!" This was said in a harsh whisper.

John bolted awake.

"Thank you," said Mycroft primly. "Now, hurry. Those plans you were talking about? We need to implement them now."

The doctor rubbed at his eyes, at first in tiredness, and then disbelief, as he grasped what the other man was saying.

"Why now?" he whispered back angrily. "I'm in pain, and I didn't yet come up with a complete plan, and couldn't you have decided that _before_ I was tortured?"

"No, because that's when they were expecting it. Now that you've been hurt, they expect us to stay put for a bit."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a heartless bastard?" John gritted out.

In the dim lighting, John saw Mycroft smile thinly. "There's no time to waste. Tell me your assessment, and I'll tell you mine. I believe we can work something out."

As much as the doctor was tired, hurt, and frustrated, his survival instincts kicked in and he went into strategic mode. "The chains are fortunately off, probably to avoid further aggravation to my injuries, although yours may have been an oversight. I believe we can make use of it to fashion some crude lock picks and weapons. Hit the guards right outside with them, and get their weapons..." John said thoughtfully.

"Guards are on a smoke break. Unfortunately, their lighter disappeared, and one had to go get one. Then the other one realized that his cigarettes are missing..."

John looked at Mycroft, a spark of admiration in his eyes. "I thought Sherlock was the only pickpocket in your family," he smirked.

"I have some modest talents of my own," Mycroft gr8nned sardonically. "Now, quickly, what do you think is the best route?"

For several minutes, they threw ideas and suggestions back and forth, until they came up with what they thought was the most viable plan. It was in no way guaranteed, but they didn't have a spread of options.

Mycroft was to take care of the cameras along the way, starting with the ones in their cell. John would pick the locks, and they would take care of the guards together. Mycroft estimated that it would take five minutes for those in command to catch on, and proposed leaving one camera intact, run in one direction, and then stealthily crawl back from where they came from. They would need to find a small space to hide near their cell, while the minions searched for them on the upper floor.

John suggested firing some shots on the upper floor as a distraction, and then crawling back. Mycroft nodded in stiff approval. "This is it," he said quietly. "Good luck, Dr. Watson."

"Don't forget I'm not really in tip-top shape," John reminded him tersely.

"I know," Mycroft answered. Then, very softly, he added, "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson."

The next ten minutes were a blur. They stealthily picked the locks, and Mycroft disabled the cameras. They crawled next to the wall, until they heard the voices of the guards coming back. A good knock on the back of the head with the heavy chains were all it took to knock them out.

Now armed, the man crawled up the stairs from the cellar to the first floor, and began the next step of the operation. Mycroft disabled two cameras, and then signaled to John at the third. They began running freely down the corridor, and heard the shouts and footsteps coming toward them. John fired two shots at the wall, and then dropped down. Mycroft followed.

They made their way back, towards the door to the staircase. They had to knock out one guard on the way down, wasting precious seconds. They finally made it to the cupboard housing various odds and ends, and crouched inside, weapons at the ready. For half an hour, they heard the sounds of searching outside, mostly above them.

John turned to Mycroft, holding up one hand. He signaled him in their private code. _What now?_

Mycroft signalled back. _Clothes._

The next few minutes were the most tense ones of the entire operation. They left their hideout, and let go of the safety of their weapons, in order to strip themselves of their clothes and exchange it with the ones of the original two unconscious guards, who had been left lying there like forgotten sacks of potatoes.

Mycroft was done in under two minutes, and then reached out to assist John, who was struggling because of his tender injuries. John winced in pain and humiliation as the older man roughly tore off his shirt and then pulled a new one over his head. At least he had managed the trousers by himself.

Weapons held in hand, they rushed upstairs, trying to mingle with the tens of people rushing about, searching for the prisoners. In three minutes, they had made it out the front door, to find themselves in a desolate industrial area. They ran, John lagging behind, and Mycroft pulling at him every few seconds. The government official led them into what seemed like another abandoned warehouse, and they positioned themselves between some crates, panting heavily.

"You... like... warehouses..." John wheezed out.

"We have fifteen minutes until they start searching this area," Mycroft said sternly.

"Let's... take a cab... home," John suggested.

"I doubt there are any cabs handy here," Mycroft smiled hollowly. "But we're definitely not going home."

"WHAT?"

"Think, John. The kidnappers knew too much. Someone close to me has betrayed me. And I have no idea who."


	4. Chapter 4

Before John could react to Mycroft's grim statement, he found himself being dragged towards the small, smudged window in the back of the warehouse. "Give me a hand, Dr. Watson," Mycroft whispered, struggling to open the jarred window.

When the feat had been accomplished, John was the first to chamber out, followed by the older man. "Follow me," Mycroft said abruptly, and John didn't find the strength for even an indignant glare.

The men ran, crouched, and climbed, until they found themselves on a road in a somewhat less desolate area, where houses dotted the roadsides, and there was some illumination in some spots. "We need to find the town center. There should be some kind of convenience store open, and we could call for help," John suggested.

Mycroft nodded, and they proceeded down the road, until they arrived to a well-lit area. The convenience store they found was small and rundown, but had a perfectly functioning phone. John politely asked the young man at the counter for permission to use the phone, spinning a tale of a broken-down car in the woods and a lengthy hike to explain their appearance.

When the swarthy young man readily agreed, Mycroft practically lunged for the phone. John glared at him, but the older man ignored him and dialed a number. "Yes, I would like to order a cab. I'm at..." he turned to the cashier, who supplied the address. Mycroft repeated the address into the phone, and hung up.

John reached out to snatching the phone, when Mycroft put a restraining hand on his arm. "I do believe, Jack, that we can make all other arrangements when we arrive home," he said, the harsh glint in his eyes belying his friendly tone.

John figured that Mycroft was being cautious, and couldn't begrudge him that right. When the cab arrived, Mycroft gave directions to an address somewhere in the suburbs of London. John raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft just pursed his lips.

John had the distinct feeling that he was, once again, being kidnapped by the other man and playing along. True to his premonition, the journey didn't end at their destination. "We need to walk at least a half-mile, and then call another cab," Mycroft informed him curtly.

"Mycroft, stop playing games. Call your security team, or Lestrade, or Sherlock, or anyone for Heaven's sake, and get me _home_! I'm injured, and exhausted, and too bloody tired for this!"

Mycroft turned to face him. He looked the doctor up and down, and then crossed his arms. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, Dr. Watson," he said softly, dripping with condescension. "You will do exactly as I say, or I will not be responsible for what happens."

John shook his head in disbelief. "You think I'm just going to follow along like a good little puppy, just because you said so?"

"You don't have much of a choice, do you?" Mycroft responded, with a smug grin.

"No, I don't," John admitted, chagrined. His strength was waning, and he wasn't sure he could brave it out himself. "But I do hope we'll both live to see you regret this."

The next two hours were a blur of cab rides, more walking, and John grump ingredients at Mycroft, who responded with stony silence. When Mycroft stopped in front of a residential building, and dragged John inside, the doctor was mostly relieved about the chance to rest his weary bones a bit, more than frustrated at being led like a sheep.

After taking the lift to the fifth floor, Mycroft punched in a range of numbers on a keypad near the door, and the door buzzed open.

John looked around their new haven. It was small, but clean and fully furnished. Mycroft interrupted his thoughts by commenting, "There's a first-aid kit in the lavatory, if you wish to avail yourself, Dr. Watson. I'll put up a kettle in the meantime."

"Any chance of fresh clothes?" John inquired.

"Certainly. You'll find some provisions in the bedroom over there, although there are no guarantees as to style or size."

John took a shower, put some ointment and wrappings on the wounds and chafed skin he had attained from his captivity, and then put on the clothes. He wryly noted how he looked like a child dressed in his father's clothes. _Of course. These are Mycroft's,_ he realized suddenly. _This is his private safe house, and I somehow ended up in here together with him. Who would have thought?_

Mycroft, true to his word, had made tea, which John drank gratefully. The pair had a meager dinner of some canned food and Ramen noodles, and then Mycroft used the facilities to freshen up himself.

"Alright, what's our next step? I mean, we need to contact somebody. I want to make sure Rosie's alright. And you need to make sure Sherlock is safe, given that they seem to know about him, too."

"Look, John," Mycroft said softly, "I understand your concerns. However, there is no reason to believe that your daughter will be involved in this. As for Sherlock, he is incommunicado right now, which is a good thing, because our enemies can't get to him either. I believe we need a good night's rest before we do anything else. One misstep is all it takes to get ourselves caught again."

John agreed, however reluctantly, and Mycroft pushed him into the bedroom. He eyed the bed longingly, but turned to Mycroft. "Is there another bedroom in here?"

"The sofa is quite adequate, Dr. Watson. After your misadventures, I would say you need the bed more."

John nodded, and hesitated. "Good night, Mycroft."

"Good night, Dr. Watson," Mycroft returned.

* * *

The next morning, which truthfully could nearly be called noon, John Watson woke up refreshed and in better spirits than he had been in a long time. The sun was shining, he was alive, he was going home, and what more did he need?

"Alright, Mycroft, call your troops, or whatever you need to do, and let's go. Your company's been great and all, but it's getting a bit much," John called jovially to the man currently sipping tea a the kitchen table.

The man looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Sit down, John. We have things to discuss."

Those ominous words were the last thing John wanted to hear now. "No, I won't sit down. This stops here. You can stop with your bloody power play, and just get us home. Or I'll go myself."

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, sighing, "the matter is extremely complicated and volatile. Someone in my inner circle has sold me out. I don't know whom to trust. I won't be safe at home. You won't be safe. We need to stay here until I figure things out."

"Until you figure things out? That's a comfort," John said sarcastically. "With your track record, that shouldn't take long. How long will this take you? Hours? Days? _Weeks?_ "

Mycroft's expression told John all he needed to know. "Are you _mad_?" he exploded. "There's no _way_ I'll be hiding out with you for weeks. I'd rather cut my throat right now. Your need for control has gone too far this time, Mycroft, you hear me? Much too far! I'll contact Lestrade and get his help. I'm leaving and you can't stop me."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Can't I?"

"I'd like to see you try. I'm not afraid of you, Mycroft Holmes." John strode to the door and attempted to open it, only to find it locked. "Very funny, Mycroft. You'd think that after all my time in the army and with Sherlock, I wouldn't know how to pick a lock."

He felt a sudden pressure on his shoulders, as two hands grabbed him and roughly pushed him away from the door. "You will find, Dr. Watson," a voice hissed in his right ear, "that your bravery this time, is the kind of stupidity that can do more damage than you can ever imagine. You will sit down now, and listen, or you will find every reason to be very, very afraid of me."


	5. Chapter 5

John turned around, white faced with anger. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

"Listen to me well, because I will _not_ repeat myself," Mycroft gritted out between clenched teeth. He drew a breath, very obviously trying to get himself under control. "I cannot protect you, or your daughter, or Sherlock, for that matter, if I _do not know who betrayed me._ Now, the moment you go home, they either get you, or _use your daughter against you._ "

"They can be after Rosie right now! I need to get to her, you cold-hearted bastard!"

"No, they won't!" Mycroft voice rose as he lost his weak grip on his temper. "They don't know where you are, and can't make contact with you! Your daughter is now safer than ever, unless you foolishly show yourself and hand them the opportunity on a golden platter!"

"Why should I believe you, Mycroft?" John retorted, his voice hard. "Why should I trust you with my child's safety?"

"Believe it or not, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said frigidly, his eyes shooting sparks. "I do not enjoy seeing children being caught in the crossfire of adult conflict. Nor do I make it a sport of mine to ensure the suffering of little girls," he finished sardonically.

"No, you only ensure that they're locked up in miserable prison cells," the doctor answered evenly.

Both men stood frozen for a moment. Then the impact of the last words spoken hit. John observed Mycroft reeling, his face draining of color, his eyes going wide and his jaw hanging. The British Government stood very still for a moment, and then abruptly turned on his heels and fled to the bedroom.

John heard the click of the door being locked, as he stood rooted to his spot. He felt a churning in his stomach that he hadn't expected to feel. The words he had just spoken, despite having felt so right as he said it, now echoed with harshness that bordered on cruelty. John felt ashamed of letting himself go so far.

Truly, he had been provoked in the first place. His days of suffering had only added to his fury and impulsivity. And yet, by going too far, he might have snapped the last thread of their relationship, leaving it impossible for them to still work out their differences.

John sat down at the kitchen table, leaning his elbows on it, and then lowering his head into his palms. For a quarter of an hour, he was sunk into his despairing thoughts.

He didn't look up when he heard the footsteps, quiet but determined. He heard rather than saw Mycroft pulling out a chair and sitting down. He only looked up when Mycroft began drumming on the smooth wooden tabletop.

"Mycroft," he said neutrally.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft returned, and then sighed. "I am truly sorry for my actions."

"Well, I'm sorry too," John said ruefully. "I should never have said what I did."

"Look, Dr. Watson, I indeed have no right to hold you prisoner here. The door is open; you are free to go. I only wished to explain the consequences of your actions, so I wouldn't live to regret not doing so."

"And I didn't make it very easy for you, did I?" John answered, his lips quirking a bit.

"Yes, well, that could have gone better," Mycroft acknowledged.

The two men lapsed into a thoughtful silence, which wasn't quite companionable, but at least not rife with tension.

"Do you suppose we could still work together, to catch your mole?" John offered tentatively.

"I would hope so. I have a plan of some kind, which I very much hope you would be agreeable to." Mycroft paused, and then added softly, "However, in order for that to occur, there are some things that need to be cleared up first."

"That being?" John asked, perking up.

"Tell me, Dr. Watson, what grievous harm have I done to you, to make you so mistrusful of me?" the British Government asked quietly.

The doctor, startled by the bluntness of the question, stared at the man seated across from him for a full minute. He then opened his mouth to respond, but was stopped by a raised hand from the older man. "Please, Dr. Watson, take your time to think on it. I believe this will be a longer conversation. For now, allow me to explain my plan, so that we can begin implementing it without much delay."

The government employee immediately launched into a monologue, detailing his scheme, while the doctor listened, interjecting with occasional questions and comments.

Mycroft explained that the leaks could have originated only from his tiny inner circle, which consisted of his PA, Anthea, Lady Smallwood, and Sir Charles Edwin. That didn't mean he necessarily suspected one of them of turning traitor.

"Finding out from where the leak sprung will merely give us a direction from where to investigate," he expounded. "I've already made the mistake once of arresting Lady Smallwood when it was indeed her PA that was the mole."

"Wait, you had her _arrested_?" John asked curiously."Can you even do that?"

Mycroft gave him a look that said "Obviously!" in a manner so similar to Sherlock, that John had to grin. "Well, I had her held and personally interrogated her. Believe me, I'm still suffering the consequences," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Did you truly believe her the mole?" John asked with interest.

"Honestly, it seemed impossible. However, it was Sherlock who gave me the intel."

"And you trust Sherlock," John nodded understandingly.

"Absolutely. And I had... promised him..." Mycroft trailed off, looking at John, as if suddenly remembering his presence.

"Promised him?" John asked with interest, cooking his head.

"As a favor to him. To help him, whatever it took, to find out who had betrayed your wife- your late wife," Mycroft said uncomfortably. "I- I do not believe I have said it before, but I am truly sorry for your loss."

John looked down, blinking several times. He then nodded stiffly in acknowledgment, and, when he could trust his voice again, asked Mycroft to continue.

"So once we narrow down our suspect, we then need to find out if it was a purposeful betrayal, or inadvertent leak. Yet once we know who's compromised, at least we shall know whom we _can_ trust completely."

"So, how do we get it narrowed down?" John asked keenly.

"We will need to leak our whereabouts, to only one person at a time, with strict instructions not to communicate this further. We will then see what kind of response we get."

"Leak our whereabouts? That sounds dangerous," John said thoughtfully.

"Exactly your area, Dr. Watson. So, are we on?"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** In response to all your lovely feedback, I've given you a somewhat longer chapter than usual. This one is heavy on dialogue, but it's an intense conversation that had to happen. I'd like to know if you want to see more of that in the next chapter, or mostly action/intrigue. Thanks for reading!

* * *

Mycroft held up a mobile phone. "I've equipped this safe house with several of these. Untraceable, bug-free, and disposable. I'll place the first call to Anthea."

"Don't tell me she's the first on your list of suspects," John exclaimed in surprise.

"No, she's the last."

"Then why... I would have thought you'd go with the most likely suspect first."

"No. Listen to me, Dr. Watson, as much as we need to find the culprit, we would do well to find something else first."

John knitted his brows in consternation. "And that is?"

"An ally."

"Oh, so you want to establish who's completely trustworthy first."

Mycroft smiled, and nodded. "Exactly. I don't know exactly who's involved, but I would put my money on my PA being completely clean."

The British Government began to dial, when John suddenly stopped him. "Wait, what if you're wrong? What of there's someone spying on her right now, and the information leaks to the terrorists?"

"Then we've caught our fish on the first try, " Mycroft responded calmly.

"Not before they've caught _us_ ," John argued. "Shouldn't we find a safe hiding place, or something? Or leave this place altogether?"

Mycroft stared at him, perplexed, and then his expression relaxed. His lips turned up, and he actually smiled, a real, amused smile. "Dr. Watson, you didn't really think I'd give them our _real_ address, did you?"

"Uh, yes?" John answered sheepishly.

Mycroft suddenly got up from his chair, and walked over to a picture frame in the living room. "Cliche, I know, but you'd need the code to open this," he said, as he removed the painting, and revealed an electronic keypad. He pressed several numbers, which caused the false wall panel to swing open, and reveal the full size television screen behind it.

Mycroft took hold of a remote, and made the screen come to life. "On this screen, we can view any place in London with CCTV access. I can give them any address I wish, and watch what happens afterwards."

"That's not bad," John said admiringly. "But, you know, Sherlock in our situation would have given our true address, and then spied from the rooftop or something."

"Yes, it would have been _dull_ otherwise," Mycroft chuckled sarcastically. John found himself chuckling in agreement. A spark of understanding seemed to have ignited between the two men. If anyone could understand the wonderful frustration of suffering the eccentric genius that was their best friend and brother, it was those two. Willingly or not, on that point they would always share a connection.

"Sherlock would have said that all this," John added, waving his hand towards the screen, "was the result of your phobia of legwork."

"Well, it _is_ convenient, but also less dangerous. I hope I won't bore you too much, Dr. Watson."

"No, it's alright. I can always go to Sherlock for my next dose of adrenalin," the doctor jibed back.

Mycroft finally placed the call, and immediately reverted to his professional persona, speaking quietly and confidently into the phone. "Anthea, code 547-NA. Send a kit to 234c Blooming Lane, ASAP. Use only Lemmings or Forster. Yes, we'll be alright, thank you for your concern. I'll update you soon. Take care, my dear."

Mycroft looked at John wearily. "The code is for ensuring this remains strictly confidential. No one will know that we've been in contact."

John looked at the older man steadily. "How long?"

"Pardon?" Mycroft asked, perplexed.

"How long have you been planning for the eventuality of your own colleagues turning on you?" John asked gravely.

"Always," Mycroft answered seriously.

Silence reigned for several moments. "In the army," John said softly, with a touch of wistfulness, "we had to trust each other. There was no place for paranoia, or constant suspicion. If you couldn't trust your buddies, then you wouldn't last a day. We looked out for each other, helped each other, killed for each other, and _died_ for each other," he finished fiercely.

"Yes, I suppose things are different in the army," Mycroft said neutrally.

"You think?" John raised an eyebrow. "I can't imagine ever living like you do. Always looking over your shoulder, always waiting for a knife in the back. You say you need allies. What about friends? You know, people who will do things for you just because, not because they will gain something from it?"

Mycroft didn't respond. Instead, he worked on the screen, setting it up to show the outside of the address he had given Anthea. "It's actually another safe house, but known to some parties. We'll give it a full two hours to be on the safe side," he told John eventually.

After exactly thirty-seven minutes, a single car pulled up near the house. A man got out, carrying a black briefcase, which he placed near the front door. The man then returned to his car and sped off.

"That's Forster," Mycroft said, almost to himself. "She followed exact instructions. Look, there's no other activity nearby. No suspicious cars, or people."

Nevertheless, they watched the screen carefully for about another one-and-a-half hours. Satisfied, Mycroft closed the screen. "Anthea is in the clear. And John, please do refrain from painting with too broad of a brush," he looked intently at the doctor. "I would, and do, trust Anthea with my life, and she does the same."

John was a bit taken aback. "So what was all this?"

"You can never know about an unwitting leak," Mycroft answered. "But mostly, I wanted you to trust her like I do."

"Understood," John answered quietly.

The men prepared and ate some dinner, without much further conversation. Mycroft appeared to be lost in his thoughts for much of the time. John was drained enough by the tension of the day's events to actually relish the silence and the nearly domestic routine of eating dinner.

It was after dinner that Mycroft turned the tide by asking John if he had considered his question. It took several moments for the doctor to recall what he was talking about, and to realize that he was being put on the spot.

"Look, Mycroft, I don't think we should be doing this now," John voiced his concern. "Can we just put everything aside now, and work together until we're safe?"

Mycroft gazed at him with his usual sharp, unnerving stare. "That won't work, Dr. Watson."

"Why not? Because _you_ decided that?" John retorted, wI think a bit more force than he intended.

Mycroft smirked slightly, and didn't respond.

"So this is how things work with you. You _need_ to be in charge. You _need_ to be in control, and everyone has to bow to your wishes. Isn't it always like that?"

Mycroft's smirk widened. "You're proving my point, Dr. Watson," he said quietly.

"What," said John flatly, " _is_ your point, exactly?"

The older man laid his elbows on the table, and steeples his fingers under his chin. John felt a pang at seeing that. It reminded him too much of Sherlock, and how far he truly was from his friend. John quickly turned his attention to Mycroft, who had begun speaking in low, measured tones.

"It's very simple. You and I, Dr. Watson, share a history. We've had plenty of disagreements, misunderstandings, and dare I say, resentments, between us. I've noticed that you have a tendency to hold on to your resentments, and let it come out all at once, when met with a trigger. If both of us are to continue to work together, I cannot risk a sudden explosion of resentment or anger from your part, when it comes at an inopportune time.

"Therefore, I am giving you the opportunity to, as they say, 'air out' your grievances, without holding back. Hopefully, we can move forward afterwards."

John nearly laughed at Mycroft's use of pop psychology language. He suddenly pictured Mycroft as a therapist, sitting across his client, and saying "There, there," in soothing tones, while gently urging them to calm down and discuss their feelings. The scenario was so ludicrous that he finally gave in and chuckled.

Mycroft shot him a questioning look.

"Ever thought of going into psychotherapy?" he asked merrily.

Mycroft grimaced in response.

John turned serious. "And then what? I forgive and forget, and we all live happily ever after?"

"What you chose to forgive and forget, or not to, is not my concern," Mycroft said tightly. "I was hoping that the process of 'airing out' would help you put our differences aside more easily. Perhaps even put some of them to rest, if you would do me the courtesy of listening to my point of view afterwards."

John took a deep breath. "Alright. So, let's begin with what happened to Sherlock. I-"

"No."

John looked startled at the interruption. Mycroft was holding his hand out, like a stop sign. "John. I _said_ I would listen to _your_ grievances. Please do not involve my relationship with my brother, and how I have wronged him, or we'll never get anywhere."

"That's not right, Mycroft. When you hurt Sherlock, you hurt _me._ I'm his friend. I'm allowed to be angry on his behalf!"

Mycroft lowered his eyelids until they were mostly closed. In a long suffering tone of voice, he said, "You may be right. However, now is just not the time for this. Additionally, you may rest assured that when Sherlock is the injured party, he let's me know, in all ways."

"Do you at least regret how you've treated him?"

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft's voice was low.

John caved. "Alright, I'll let it go for now."

But Mycroft didn't. "Dr. Watson," he repeated, with a touch of indignation. "I don't think I have to own up to you. However, I will tell you this. There are some actions I regret immensely. There are others, that I would repeat, over and over again, no matter _anyone's_ opinion about that. I would do _anything_ to keep my brother safe," he finished fiercely.

"Even if Sherlock wouldn't agree?" John asked cautiously.

"Even then," Mycroft answered harshly.

"Alright. So, back to our previous conversation, where we're we again?" John made a show of tapping his forehead in thought. "Oh, right, you're an arrogant, pompous bas***, who has no notion of allowing others personal freedom. The very first time we met, you kidnapped me off the street, stole my therapist's notes with very _personal_ info, and proceeded to insult me and threaten me in every way you could." He paused, looking at Mycroft defiantly.

The latter merely nodded. "I did."

"No excuses? No apologies?" John needled him.

"Would it help if I said that I was worried about Sherlock? That I couldn't imagine what it was about you that made him trust you so soon?"

"It could. Though you needed have gone that far."

"No, I needed to test you. To see if you weren't a threat. To see if you truly could be trusted. Oh, and I apologize for stealing the therapy notes, but I didn't kidnap you."

"No? Then what would you call it?"

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft smiled. "I've never seen a kidnap victim so eagerly go to his fate. You were curious, and you wanted to come. Every time thereafter that I called you, I never forced you. You came because you wanted to, whether it was out of concern for Sherlock, or because of curiosity."

John had a smile tugging at his lips. "I suppose you're right. I still think you're arrogant and pompous, though."

"Part of my personality, I'm afraid. Now, besides my reprehensible personality traits, is there anything else you have against me?" Mycroft asked with some sarcasm.

"Hmm, lots. But in the interest of brevity, I'll keep it to a few points. You continuously treated me as just a tool, to help Sherlock, without considering my own life. You saw me grieve for two years, saw me broken and despairing, and just, just _let me mourn._ Even after my wife died, you simply called me up and asked me if I'd seen Sherlock, as if I didn't have any other concerns than being your brother's _babysitter._ "

Mycroft stared at the wall, and drummed his fingers on the table. "I do see your point. You've made a legitimate complaint."

Silence reigned at the table.

"I have a point that I've been wondering about, John," Mycroft said, his voice earnest, and almost gentle.

"Go ahead," the doctor invited.

"How do you think of me? I mean, don't you just see me in relation to Sherlock, too? Or have you ever considered me as an individual person, besides just being Sherlock's older brother?"


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hey, everyone, sorry for the wait. I'm sometimes reminded that I do have a life outside of fanfiction, as much as I sometimes forget that. I hope to be updating more regularly now:)

* * *

John hadn't expected the questions Mycroft now flung at him, and lost some of his heated confidence. "What do you- of course... Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft, _I_ don't treat people like pawns. Of course I know you're not just Sherlock's brother."

"Then what am I?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"I know you're the British Government," John answered smugly.

"Am I?" Mycroft asked, amused. "And what do I do as such?"

"How should _I_ know? It's definitely top secret, more than a little shady, and not something you ever shared with me."

"Have you ever asked?"

John stared at the man in disbelief. "When, over our weekly meetings over fish and chips? Yeah, Sherlock told me about that. You definitely have a strange sense of humor."

"Alright, what else can you tell me about myself? My favorite activities, foods, books?" Mycroft continued his strange interrogation.

John snorted. "Mycroft, are you sure you're alright?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "I'm merely proving a point, Dr. Watson. You claim that I only see you as an asset of Sherlock's. I claim that you do the same with me. You know what they say about people in glass houses."

John opened his mouth, and then closed it. He ran Mycroft's words through his mind again. He asked himself, in all honesty, if there was something to what Mycroft was saying. What did he think of when he saw the other man? Sherlock's older brother, who was constantly interfering in Sherlock's life, and by consequence, John's. A man who did something in the government, and was therefore very useful in getting them out of many scrapes. Cold, brilliant, nosy, isolated...

John was also aware of some tidbits, dries and draws, about Mycroft's life and personality, gained through personal experience or Sherlock's tatting. He knew, for example, that Mycroft liked to watch a certain sort of film, hated holidays and celebrations, and had an aversion to humans in general. He also had some sort of weight issue, which led to a cycle of losing and gaining. The physician side of him nudged at his conscience for a moment. _Did Mycroft have some kind of eating disorder? He wasn't really the type... But did he keep a proper diet? Live off junk food? Exercise? Did he have any health conditions? Did he have regular checkups?_

Dr. Watson was surprised at the questions forming in his mind. Not so much at their content, but at why he had never thought of them before. He was intimately acquainted with the health of those he was closest to, namely Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and Rosie of course. But even other friends, like Greg and Molly, often were subjected to grilling and lectures about their personal habits, the need for proper sleep and exercise, and the necessity of abstaining from too much cigarette smoke (Greg) and alcohol consumption (Molly.)

It wasn't as if John was afraid to question Mycroft. From their very first meeting, John had laid down the law and shown the government employee that he wouldn't be intimidated. So why had he never questioned, or at least privately wondered?

It wasn't because he didn't care, John reassured himself. As much as he sometimes felt like murdering the man, he had no desire for the man to keel over. He just assumed that, we'll, Mycroft was Mycroft, and he was perfectly capable of managing himself.

 _Wrong._ That was Sherlock's voice in his head. _You thought he plugged himself in to recharge every night._ John could see Sherlock smirking at him, and shook his head in frustration. No, hadn't really thought Mycroft was a robot, though sometimes he was tempted to label him as such. He just hadn't thought, full stop. Mycroft had never been more to him than Sherlock's older brother, called on when needed, _and discarded when not,_ a little voice added.

Ex-army captain Watson looked his nemesis in the eye. "Point taken," he said gravely.

* * *

Lady Smallwood was contacted next, but not before Mycroft called Anthea back. After discussing it with John, Mycroft requested that Miss Rosamund Watson be monitored and given a security detail. Their game was heating up, and although Mycroft believed she wasn't a target, it wouldn't do to take chances.

Lady Smallwood was given a different address, and passed the test with flying colors. Mycroft rubbed at his forehead in consternation. "Logically," he told John, "by process of elimination, all arrows point to Sir Charles Edwin at the moment. Yet it's hardly reasonable to believe him a traitor."

"People aren't always reasonable, especially traitors," John mused.

"Yes, but you don't know Charles like I do. He's been the Chief of MI6 for over sixteen years. If he were a double agent, I daresay England would have been in much deeper trouble than we are right now."

"Maybe it's a recent development," John suggested. "Could he have been, I don't know, bribed, or blackmailed? Or does he have a personal interest in seeing this group succeed?"

Mycroft steeples his fingers and turned his keen gaze to John. "Bribery is not Sir Charles' style. Believe me, he wouldn't have been in this position if it were. Blackmail, on the other hand, might work, but I don't know of any major pressure points they could have used, or any recent developments that could have made him more vulnerable."

"What about his staff?"

"I would say that only Charles himself has enough access to pull this off, but of course, if someone is close enough to him, and familiar with his habits and thoughts processes, they could obtain his passwords and access his private computer without raising an alarm..." Mycroft broke off and sunk into thought.

"His PA has been with him for over two decades, not that this rules her out, it merely makes it less likely. I don't really want to head in that direction, but I think our most likely suspect is Charles Jr."

"That's- his son?" John perked up with interest.

"Yes. Brilliant kid, squeaky clean record. I've heard that even MI5 tried to recruit him away, but his father wasn't about to just let him go, of course. He recently started working in that department. If he has his father's trust, he might have pieced together all the security details, and gotten his father to allow him access to his computer under one pretence or another."

"Is that allowed?" John frowned.

"Of course not," Mycroft made a face as if sucking on a lemon. "But nepotism does happen, and we sometimes look away when family members are involved." Mycroft grimaced. "You didn't ever wonder how I could share certain things with Sherlock and you, although you're both officially civilians? Sometimes exceptions are made, for the sake of expediency, or even _sentiment,_ and we will look the other way if no harm was done."

John was about to respond, when he suddenly paused. "Mycroft, you were saying something about MI5. Would you say there exists a certain rivalry between the two departents?"

"Off the record, of course. Particularly the two present heads, they've never really gotten along."

"Is it possible that MI5 is looking for a way to undermine MI6?"

"You mean, you think they would let some things leak in order to make their rivals look incompetent? Perhaps, but that doesn't explain the leak from Edwin's office."

"You said they tried recruiting Edwin Jr. Perhaps they did."

"So you're saying Junior could be a plant. Honestly, I don't think he has the greatest relationship with his father, but I didn't think he would stoop to this. However, let's assume that is so, for the moment. I hardly believe MI5 would risk my getting kidnapped just for a petty one-upping. They're far too reliant on my services, and I know far too many of their secrets."

John studied the government employee curiously. "Don't you work for MI6?"

Mycroft smiled sourly. "Technically, I don't work for anybody, although there are people I need to answer to."

"Didn't you say you have a minor position in the British Government?" John teased. "That sounds very much like working for somebody."

"That would be like saying Sherlock works for Scotland Yard, because he does some detective work for them."

"That means that you- no, don't tell me that, that's just too funny!" Dr. Watson began giggling with abandon. "You're-You're a," John couldn't get the words out.

"You didn't think my brother was the only consultant in the family," the Consulting Government sniffed in offense, but his eyes twinkled with mirth.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the third morning the two men were spending in the flat, and wondrously enough, they were both still alive and unharmed. Their forced coexistence had led not only to a sort of truce, but even brought them both to a better understanding of each other.

Yet their breakfast was eaten in tense silence. The knowledge of what was to come, and everything that would be put at risk, put them both on edge. Mycroft made his phone calls, weaving a delicate net to catch the suspected traitor. Sir Charles would be called, and his movements, and those of his staff, discreetly tracked by both Anthea and Lady Smallwood.

"They both trust you, don't they?" John suddenly blurted out.

Mycroft didn't ask whom he was referring to. He was a Holmes, after all. "Why wouldn't they?"

"No, I didn't mean it that way," John said hastily. "It's just, this whole... situation," he waved his hand around, "is quite unusual, even for you, isn't it? You disappear, you claim you were kidnapped, then you set them on the trail of none other than the MI6 Chief, and, you know, it might seem a bit suspicious."

"I suppose I'm lucky they're cooperating," Mycroft mused.

"No, it's not luck. They really trust you, to the extent that they didn't question your story even once."

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Dr. Watson, I do have a certain reputation as- let's just say that my codename as Antarctica is rather apt."

"That's really your codename?" John asked in disbelief, smirking.

Mycroft gave him a sour smile. "However, I'm also known for being rather dedicated to my duties. That's something my colleagues rely on."

"Yes, that you are," John said seriously, and left it to Mycroft to deduce his true meaning. John might not agree with the way he went about it, but he knew that Mycroft was reliable when it came to things he cared about- like his job, or his little brother.

"I'm ready to set the plan in motion. As I've said before, John, there are many variables here, and we don't know exactly how this will play out. If my theory is correct, we will essentially hand the terrorists a very potent weapon. Once they know we're in contact with the office, they may go after people associated with us, to use them against us.

"Rosie, as you know, is now settled in a safe house, along with Mrs. Hudson. Miss Hooper has been given extra security, as have some other associates of Sherlock and yourself. As for my little brother himself, it's a good thing he's undercover and incommunicado. I'm relying on the fact that they haven't used him yet as a pawn, which reassures me that they don't know his true identity."

"But Mycroft, they _knew_ he was unreachable when they tricked us into that trap. Whom is he working for now, anyway?"

"It's actually MI5 that offered him this mission. He is going after some home-grown terror cells, led by a radicalized British man, whom MI5 has been watching for a while. They wanted Sherlock to get them enough evidence to put the leaders away, and dismantle the network."

John frowned. "If MI5 is behind our kidnapping, won't they hand Sherlock over to the terrorists in order to get to you?"

Mycroft sighed wearily. "Again, I highly doubt MI5 would sacrifice their own operations for some petty revenge. We might be looking at a high-level mole in their system. In any case, Sherlock operates pretty independently, and not even his direct handler will know where he is at any given moment. Very few are even aware of his involvement, and the fact that he hasn't been caught yet is very encouraging."

"Still, he's at risk. What if the mole is only waiting for him to make contact? Sherlock isn't even aware of the danger!" John protested.

"I appreciate that you worry about him," Mycroft said sincerely. "I do, too, to be honest. Yet it's a risk we must take. If we don't, if we can't catch the mole _now_ , Sherlock will be in still more danger of being eventually uncovered."

"Yes, you're right," John said unhappily. Mycroft didn't look any more glad than he did.

When Mycroft had recieved confirmation that everything was in place, he called Sir Charles. The man sounded genuinely relieved to hear from Mycroft, and very concerned about the situation. The MI6 Chief promised to send help to the address he was given, and requested that Mycroft follow up.

Anthea was on standby, reporting the information as it came in. Charles Jr. arrived at his father's office over an hour later, and after fifteen minutes, the senior man was suddenly called away. The young man fiddled with the computers, and then left.

He was tracked and followed, and was heard placing a call. The call's signals were scrambled, and the actual conversation was a pretty innocuous one about picking up dry cleaning. Nothing could really be traced to him.

Except that, of course, several trusted contacts in MI5 were sent to keep track of the most likely suspects. They were narrowed down to those who had enough connections and seniority to know about Sherlock's mission, but not close enough to be able to pinpoint Sherlock's exact role.

John had had a sudden flash of inspiration, which gave the agents another target to focus on. "What if," he had asked Mycroft, "the mole is a recruiter for MI5, who was in contact with Junior since their attempt to recruit him? Junior might cooperate with him, thinking his handler is doing legit work for MI5, and is trying to prove himself to them. He might not be aware of the extent of his betrayal, or what is being done with his information."

Mycroft had frozen in place, and stared at John for several minutes. "That's not a completely unsound idea," Mycroft admitted. "I can see why my brother keeps you around." High praise from Mycroft Holmes, indeed.

Lady Smallwood had done some digging, and had found the names of the original recruiters, who were now kept unknowingly under a close watch. Mycroft and John were waiting now, in a state of high alertness and intense agitation, to hear if anything panned out of the surveillance.

"Sir, we've got him," Anthea said, her smooth, professional tone betraying only a hint of excitement. "Mathers, the senior recruiter in Junior's case, had answered a call at precisely the same time Junior placed his, and ended it at the same moment. Coincidentally, the subject was a pickup at the dry cleaners," Anthea reported, unable to keep the smirk put of her voice.

Both Mathers and Junior were summarily taken into custody and interrogated. As John had surmised, Junior was unaware of whom, exactly, he had been spying for, and was devastated upon being made aware of it. He had essentially betrayed his country, not only his father and MI6, and sold his soul to a group of murderous terrorists.

Unfortunately, Charles Edwin Jr. couldn't offer them a lot, besides telling them exactly what he had leaked. Mathers was much harder to break, being a trained MI5 operative, and his confessions, if they ever came, might come too late.

"Well, I suppose that with the security departments now being secure and all, we might considereal leaving?" John suggested hopefully.

"Yes, that might be a good idea. I'd just like to double-check with Sherlock's handlers, and make sure he's informed as soon as possible about the mole. We don't know what, exactly, Mathers gave them, and I'll request that Sherlock be as soon as contact is made."

"Good idea," John agreed.

Anthea called even before Mycroft had a chance to dial. John watched as Mycroft exchanged some words over the phone, and then suddenly raise his voice. "Say that again!"

He listened in stiff silence, and then said crisply, "Send it over immediately."

"Change of plans, Dr. Watson," Mycroft informed him, after he hung up, his words slow and deliberate. "Sherlock's been compromised."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** I hope you all enjoy this latest installment. As usual, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

* * *

For a moment, John forgot how to breath. "Compromised? What do you- compromised in what way?"

Mycroft didn't answer. Instead, he retrieved a laptop from a cupboard, and busied himself with it for several minutes. "Here," he thrust it at John. "They sent these pictures to my office. I had Anthea send it to this account."

The photographs were all of a middle aged man, with a graying mustache, swarthy skin and deep black eyes. Something about the man's face and posture was very familiar to the doctor. After a few seconds, it clicked.

"Sherlock," he breathed. "So they've discovered his disguise?" He asked tensely.

"Not the terrorist cell, no," Mycroft dismissed his concerns, almost languish. "As it turns out, this was Mathers' backup plan. An associate of his within the terror group is in possession of the information, and will release it to his masters if we don't let Mathers out of custody."

"So, you'll have to let him go," John mused, before heading a sigh of relief. "Small exchange for Sherlock's safety, isn't it."

"That remains to be seen," the government employee answered stiffly.

The doctor looked up in alarm. "I'm not sure I heard that correctly," he said calmly, in a tone portending imminent danger.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but there are many considerations we have to take into account before we make a deal. Mathers is no small fry, and he will be very dangerous out of our hands. There is definitely a lot he hasn't yet given over to his "friends," which he will have no hesitation to do now."

John swallowed thickly. "No, Mycroft, I can't believe this. I JUST CAN'T BELIEVE YOU!" He suddenly roared. Invading the other man's personal space, he looked up into his face, fists clenched tightly and held to his side's. "This isn't a game any more. The minute Sherlock is exposed, he's finished. _Finished._ Please tell me no one is considering holding on to that miserable hide of that traitor in exchange for saving your brother."

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, in his best calm-down-we-know-what-we're-doing-you-simple-civilian patronizing tone. "We both know that Sherlock has gotten himself out of tighter spots without a scratch. There's no point in making hasty decisions."

"OK, I see," John said. "So there will be a conference of all the bigwigs, and you'll get to decide, once again, that the life of an agent who risks himself for his country isn't worth the embarrassment of letting your spy go. Is that it?"

"Not quite, but i don't expect you to understand, Dr. Watson. I believe we have more experience in this area than an ex-army doctor looking for his next adrenalin fix," Mycroft replied, sneering.

With the utmost self-restraint, John resisted physically attacking the smug git. He breathed in several times deeply, and then, still trembling with barely suppressed anger, gave his last retort. "Fine. Fine, have it your way. I should have known right away that you would respond like this. You didn't care when they tortured me, did you? I should have realized you didn't care a whit about anyone when it comes to your little games.

"Not even Sherlock supersedes your "duties," does he? Is that what you did when he was being tortured in Eastern Europe, as you yourself admitted to? You left him to be tortured and only got him out when it was convenient, didnt you? That's all you do for him, for anyone. Show up to the rescue at your leisure, your convenience. And I, I was once convinced that you actually cared."

John felt a lump growing in his throat, and was mortified at the thought that the smug man would see him breaking. "That's it. I'm leaving. I swear, I will find a way to get him out myself. Thank God I got to see what kind of snake I'm dealing with before I let myself be poisoned by your venom."

John abruptly stalked to the door, which was miraculously open. Before he left, he heard Mycroft say placidly, "But then again, Dr. Watson, I never denied being a reptile, did I?"

John emerged into the open air, and filled his lungs with it, reveling, for a moment, in the sliver of freedom. He was abruptly brought back to reality as he realized that, not only was he wearing a too-large suit that made him look like a tramp, and not only had he not a clue of his location, but he didn't have a single pence on him, nor a phone to call for help.

The sight of a black car smoothly pulling up made him stiffen. A young man stepped out, and politely held the door for him. "Would you care for a lift, Dr. Watson?" the man asked solicitously.

The doctor was trapped in indecision. He really didn't want to use Mycroft's resources, but he would stay stuck in this awful place if he refused. He needed to get home and plan a rescue for Sherlock.

Suspicion suddenly bloomed in his mind. "Who are you? Why should I get into the car with you?" he demanded.

The young man smiled in amusement. "I do understand your concerns. My boss had mentioned you might say that. Therefore, I am to give you an alternative way to get home, if you'd like."

He handed John a wad of cash, a mobile phone, and a credit card. "If you check the app on the phone, you will see our exact location," the employee explained patiently. "You can take a cab, or the Tube, or call anyone you wish for help. The choice is yours."

"Thank you," John said reluctantly. "Now, go, before I do something I'll regret."

The car was gone on moments, and John set out in search of a cab. Google Maps informed him that he was but forty-five minutes from home. John couldn't wait.

* * *

John Watson looked around his flat tiredly. It was spic and span, probably the job of whoever had gone and packed Rosie's stuff. As much as he hated having his privacy invaded by strangers, John couldn't help but be grateful that he wasn't facing an avalanche of dirty laundry and moldy dishes.

He reflected on the last time he had been in his flat. The phone call from Mycroft, the hasty departure, the trap they had been led into. Part of him wanted only to go and get Rosie, to cover those pudgy cheeks in kisses and hold on tight, and never, ever let go.

But first, he would need to get Sherlock. Rosie's godfather was also the reason she was able to ever see the light of day, not that John had ever said so straight out. That wpuld have brought too many uncomfortable emotions to the fore, for both of them.

The Magnussen debacle, and Sherlock's solution to it, had put an end to a very real threat to Mary's life. Yes, her life was still too short, and too abruptly ended. But John wouldn't go there now. Sherlock had, however, given them the chance to become parents, and for Mary to leave a legacy behind in the form of an innocent little babe.

"I owe you, Sherlock," John said fiercely, although there was no one around to hear him. "And this time, I won't forget that. I won't."

John knew he couldn't go this alone. After some consideration, he decided to call Lestrade. Greg was a good, loyal friend, and had plenty of connections. Perhaps he would be able to advise him on how to go forward.

As he began to get up to reach the phone, it rang. Glancing at the Caller ID, he wasn't surprised to see a blocked number, and considered letting it ring. However, if the caller was who he suspected it was, they would be incredibly persistent, and John preferred getting over with it rather sooner than later.

"Yes?" he barked into the phone.

"John," came Anthea's hesitant voice. "I've see you've already arrived home. Do you have any idea where Mycroft is?"

"Why should I know, or care?" John responded angrily. "Wait, he didn't tell you his location?"

"No, he just told Ben where to wait for you several hours ago. I've been trying to contact him for the last three hours, but he hasn't been responding. Can you give us the exact address and flat number, so we can go and look for him?"

John frowned in confusion. This was completely unexpected. Mycroft was supposed to go to headquarters straightaway, wasn't he? He obligingly gave Anthea the information, and asked her to keep him informed. He couldnt help the pang of worry his heart gave, on behalf of the Iceman, no less.

Half-an-hour later, Anthea called back. "John," she said quietly. "I don't want to say too much over the phone, but he isn't there. We need to speak to you. Stay home, we'll pick you up shortly."

An shiver tingled down the doctor's spine, as he confirmed his agreement. Lost in thought, trying to puzzle out this strange situation, he never realized that nearly an hour had passed, until he heard a voice at the threshold.

"John?"

It wasnt Anthea. It was the very last person he had expected.


	10. Chapter 10

"Sherlock!"

John rushed over to the tall figure, and instinctively placed a hand over his friend's arm. He felt solid enough. "You're back," John breathed. "You're back!" he repeated, giving a sort of strangled chuckle. "You got, you had me going out of my mind for the last few hours. Couldn't be bothered to call, eh?" Despite his chiding words, John's tone held nothing but affection and relief.

"Well, I was just dropped off in the area. I don't even have my phone with me, or I wouldn't quite be incommunicado, would I?" Sherlock said defensively. Then he smirked, a real, live Sherlock smirk, that reassured John that balance had been restored to the universe.

"So, Mycroft got you out in the end, or did you escape by yourself?" John asked conversationally.

Sherlock stiffened, and looked at John sharply. "Why would Mycroft have been involved? I was told I was being exchanged for their mole in MI5."

"Ah, Mathers? I thought they weren't going to let him go. I suppose Mycroft finally saw some sense in the end."

"Wait. Why Mycroft involved in this, again? This was an MI5 operation. Patterson would have been able to handle this himself. _Of course_ Mycroft couldn't stop himself from meddling, why am I even surprised?" Sherlock pouted.

"Yeah, he just can't resist, can he?" John chuckled. "He had me going for a moment there, when he claimed he wouldn't give up Mathers for you. I think he was just trying to get rid of me, to stop me from meddling into 'sensitive government matters.' I was pissed at him, mind you."

Sherlock frowned. "There's something missing here. Did he come get you, or did you go to him? How did you even know about my cover being blown? If Mycroft didn't want you involved, why did he call you in the first place?"

"Oh. You don't know," John said, with a sudden epiphany. "Yeah, we've had a couple of exciting days, pity you missed out on all the fun," he continued sardonically. Before he could launch into his tale, the doorbell rang.

With a sudden pang of disquiet, John remembered Anthea's call. "Oh my God," he muttered. "I forgot."

"That's Anthea, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, striding over to open the door. "I should have known."

The pretty young PA entered as soon as Sherlock flung the door open. "It's you," she said sharply, looking neither surprised nor relieved to see Sherlock.

"Good to see you, too," Sherlock answered sarcastically.

They exchanged a long, significant glance. Anthea gave him a tired smile. "Actually, it's good to see you. I'm glad you made it back safely."

"You don't _look_ very pleased."

"This isn't a coincidence, is it?" she asked softly.

"Is Mycroft missing?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

She nodded.

"What's going on?" John had gotten up, and was quickly approaching the duo. "Would someone care to fill me in?"

It was Anthea who answered. "It seems like Mycroft made a private deal with the terrorists. Sherlock's freedom in exchange for one British Governement.

* * *

The three individuals in the room were in various stages of Moodiness. Sherlock was in Grumpy mode, Anthea was wavering between Furious and Terrified, and John was simply in Aftermath of Sucker Punched.

By pooling the information each one had, a clear picture had emerged. Mycroft had lied to John. Mathers wasn't behind the threat to Sherlock. The terror cell leaders had known about Sherlock, and had saved the knowledge as a back-up plan in case the kidnapping didn't work out. They had sent a demand for Mycroft to turn himself in, in exchange for Sherlock's freedom.

Mycroft had immediately decided to deal with this on his own. He first needed to drive John away, so that he wouldn't be able to interfere. He had pressed all the right buttons, apparently, because John had stormed out in a huff.

"Why would he need to contact the terrorists himself?" John asked Anthea. "Wouldn't it be better if he worked along with you, and the others in your department, to work out a better plan? Or at least to plan a rescue mission, or something?"

"As if we would have ever let him," Anthea replied scornfully.

"But Sherlock was in danger! Don't tell me you wouldn't have done anything about that!"

"John," Sherlock said quietly. "Think of it this way. If there was a lieutenant that had been captured by enemy forces, would the army have exchanged him for a general?"

John heaved a sigh. "Alright, I got it. So then why did Mycroft agree to the exchange?"

Sherlock and Anthea were both giving him strange looks. "I mean, yes, I know he's concerned about Sherlock," John held out his hand defensively. "I mean, with his resources, surely he could have found a better way? Look, when we were kidnapped, they weren't very nice to us. And that was only the beginning. Surely Mycroft knows what they're capable of doing!"

Anthea was typing away furiously at her laptop when she answered him. "That's exactly why, Dr. Watson."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at him silently.

"I need to get back to the office," Anthea threw over her shoulder, as she hurried out. "I'll keep you two updated. Oh, and Mr. Holmes, don't try anything funny."

"She always does that," Sherlock murmured, when the PA had left.

"What?" John asked.

"Calls me Mr. Holmes when she's pissed off."

John sighed, and plopped down on the sofa, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Fantastic. I've done it again," he said bitterly.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked carefully.

"Fallen for his tricks. He just loves it, doesn't he? What was it again- 'the little scrap of ordinariness, to be dazzled by your brilliance,' or something like that. The foolish little doctor, the pawn in every game." John grimaced.

"I'm sure he didn't mean-" Sherlock tried.

"Yes, he did. You know what eats me? That I fall for it, every time. You know what they say, fool me once, and all that."

"You're angry," Sherlock observed.

"Yes, at myself. I should have seen this coming from miles away. Instead, I just did my whole self-righteous routine, ripped into him, and ran away."

"Mhmm," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot, I know. You also think so, don't you?"

"Not quite," Sherlock said sincerely. "Mycroft is not an easy man to read. I've had years more of experience, not to mention my greater mental capacity, and I still don't always get it right."

"I should have seen it. It's not like he hasn't done it before."

"Sometimes, one sees only what they wish to see," Sherlock said, somewhat cryptically.

"Whatever. We have work to do. Tell me everything, and I mean _everything,_ that you've got on this organization."

Sherlock complied with surprising speed, and pretty soon, the walls of John's sitting room were sporting a variety of notes and photos, held together by tape and paper clips and sheer Sherlockian energy.

"You have a phone," John said suddenly, as he saw Sherlock texting.

"Obviously. Anthea," was Sherlock's succinct reply.

"Did you get any updates?"

"More than that. I need your laptop."

Knowing better than to question him, John reluctantly submitted to the request.

With a few swift strokes, Sherlock logged into his email account, and clicked on the last one received. Anthea had sent a link to a video clip.

"I'm not going to enjoy this, will I?" John asked, facing his friend.

"You've surely seen worse," Sherlock answered dryly.

"And you?"

Sherlock didn't respond. He clicked on the link, and the screen filled with the image of Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, sitting in a chair, bound on ropes, with a pistol being held to his head.


End file.
